Be comforted, the exile is ending. Know that God’s Word holds your fragility together. And know this, most of all: God is with you, with this world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Second Sunday of Advent, year B
Texts: Isaiah 40:1-11; 2 Peter 3:8-15a; Mark 1:1-8

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

“Comfort them. Speak to their heart. Cry out: prepare. Cry out God’s presence. Lift up your voice with strength.”

It isn’t often the preacher is given such clear preaching directives in Scripture. Seven times in these words from Isaiah I am commanded to proclaim, and I’m given what needs proclamation.

So, on this Second Sunday of Advent, I will do what God commands.

I proclaim to your very heart, to your inner being, this grace: Be comforted. Your exile is going to end.

For the first time for many of us, we now understand the ache of exile, the pain of separation, that God’s people knew in Babylon. We’ve willingly put ourselves into exile to care for our neighbor. We’ve kept away from gathering with loved ones. We’ve kept from worshipping together in person, a pain that is deeper because this also deprives us of God’s grace and strength we’ve relied on receiving in that worship.

But hear this: your exile won’t last. This comfort is a future hope. Israel didn’t go home immediately on hearing the prophet. But the comfort, the hope, the promise, is that the end of exile is coming.

There are now effective vaccines. This last Friday news of the first 24,000 doses coming to Minnesota was reported. Not enough yet, certainly. But two months ago we didn’t know when, if ever, vaccines would be found. Now we know there is light ahead.

You have served your term, your deliverance is coming, beloved of God.

Today I cry out to you this truth: God has something to say about your fragility.

I’m told to say you’re right when you feel how vulnerable you are, how vulnerable we are as a society, how vulnerable this world is. Surely the people are grass: the grass withers, the flowers fade, and so do we. You know this now.

Perhaps you know vulnerabilities you’ve never experienced before. The utter lack of ability to control your life, in the presence of something as destructive as a pandemic, especially since you can’t control what others do. The weakness and frustration of having a loved one whom you cannot be with to assist, to help, to protect. The reality that young and old, weak and strong, all potentially die from this. Even the realization over recent years that our institutions of democracy are vulnerable to collapse if we don’t keep watch.

But listen: God says, yes, you know how vulnerable you are now, if you didn’t before. You know you are like the grass. But I became vulnerable to death, to your human fragility, to show my life cannot be stopped by anything. Ever.

My Word, your God says on this Second Sunday of Advent, my promise of love for you in Christ, my grace that is sufficient for you, will stand forever. Will never be broken.

I climb high today, not in a pulpit because of our exile, and not on a mountain, but I stand and declare to you this day: Your God is here.

God is coming and has come into your life, into this world. As promised.

In the millions of people working for justice for all God’s children, for the dismantling of systems of violence and oppression, for the ending of the racism and sexism embedded in our society, in these, your God is and has been feeding God’s flock like a shepherd, as promised.

In the millions of care-givers and front-line workers, those working on vaccines and those dedicated leaders who seek to keep us all safe, keep you healthy, in these, your God is and has been carrying God’s flock in God’s own bosom, as promised.

In the millions who care for their neighbor in so many ways, who deliver goods and services to all who need it, who watch for any who slip through cracks (like those who used Mount Olive’s kitchen on Thanksgiving Day to feed 700 homeless people in encampments across the Cities), in these, your God is and has been gathering God’s lambs into God’s own arms, as promised.

And I say to you who are hearing this by yourself on a CD, or watching this on a computer alone in your place, or reading this a few days from now in your mailing, know this: you might feel alone and isolated. But your God is with you. Your community is praying for you, knows you, loves you, and is there for you. In these, your God is and has been with you. As promised.

And since your God is here, I proclaim this to you all: be prepared for God’s coming.

This is what our brother Peter says to you today: What sort of persons ought you to be in your patient waiting for God’s coming? People who lead lives of holiness and godliness, which will hasten God’s coming because you’ll become God’s blessing to others, a sure sign of God’s presence, God’s shepherding, in their lives.

John the Baptist calls this repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Out of your grace from God, out of your love from God, you turn from ways that harm and destroy, you straighten the crooked and level the uneven, and live into that grace and love in a new life. It’s sharing that extra coat, carrying another’s burden, John says elsewhere.

This is the highway you make in the wilderness of this world: the life of love you live because of the love you know from God, opens your eyes more and more to see God’s glory in your life, and witnesses more and more to others that God has come to them, too.

I need to repeat brother Peter’s word, though: be patient.

God is coming, but in a timing different from ours. God’s dream that all this shepherding and feeding and gathering of the lambs of God will be done through you and me and the others of God’s children means it’ll take more time than we’re always ready to be patient for. But Peter says, that’s because God wants all to come home, not by force but willingly, and will take all the time needed.

But good news: your patience is not in vain. God’s already doing this work, and you can know this glory and see it: Your exile is coming to an end. God’s Word holds your fragility together securely. And God is here, with you, and me, and this world. So be comforted.

And now this work Isaiah gave me today is given to you.

On this Second Sunday of Advent, you are now commanded to take up the cry, proclaim the comfort, the grace, and the presence of God to all God’s children.

So, get up to that mountain, or porch, or wherever you are called, and lift up your voice without fear, lift up your loving actions without doubt, and say, “Here is your God!”

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

It is the coming of God in Christ, this second coming into your hearts and lives, that helps you stay awake and even rest as you seek to be faithful in God’s work and world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The First Sunday of Advent, year B
Texts: Isaiah 64:1-9; Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; 1 Corinthians 1:3-9; Mark 13:24-37

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

The problem isn’t that we aren’t awake.

Every Advent we hear, “stay awake, keep watch,” and are encouraged to be about our work as we wait for the coming of God’s Christ. We’re exhorted not to get complacent, to be mindful that we are called to be God’s blessing to this world.

We know this. And frankly, our problem isn’t that we aren’t staying awake. Our problem is that we’re sleep-deprived.

The Prayer of the Day asks Christ to awaken us to the “threatening dangers of our sins.”

How could we be more awake to them? The past sixty years has jarred all of us awake to the interconnectedness of our world, how decisions we make or don’t make can harm people we’ll never meet.

“Sins” used to be only the things we did or didn’t do to people close by. We were harsh, or lied, or didn’t care for those in need next door. We still do plenty of sins like these today. But we know that there are so many more things we do or don’t do that our forebears never had to consider as sin.

Every purchase we make has the potential to support pollution or bad labor practices or corporations that abuse the poor. You can’t just buy something because it’s a good price, not anymore. We know this. We’re awake to this.

If our family is cared for and secure, housed in a good neighborhood, that’s not enough anymore. Now we know that if we’re safe and sound while others can’t earn enough to put a roof over their heads, and others face injustice and oppression that we don’t, but live in the same city we do, we can’t rest. We know this. We’re awake to this.

And we can’t decide whom to vote for every couple years and not think about the government in between, not anymore. Now we have to consider the state of our democracy, the security of the right to vote, the hidden agendas of leaders that work against the good of the most vulnerable without our approval. We have to pay attention all the time now. We know this. We’re awake to this.

Serving as Christ in times like these, with our global connectedness, it’s exhausting to stay awake for everything we’re aware we need to. Everything we want to stay awake for, make a difference in.

Awaken us to the threatening dangers of our sins? When was the last time you took any of this lightly?

Isaiah’s cry resonates deeply with me this Advent.

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence,” the prophet calls out to God. “You used to act, God. You used to do marvelous things. Won’t you come down and help us?”

We know that all of us who are in Christ are anointed to serve God in the world. To love God and neighbor and be the presence of Christ to all in need, a part of God’s healing. We know God has no hands but ours, no feet but ours, no arms but ours, no voice but ours.

But with Isaiah we sometimes wonder, “God, when will you come? When will you act? Are we to do all?”

Sometimes, in these days of pandemic and serious social crises, of injustice and poverty and lack of compassion, it feels as if we’re outclassed and overcome. If we could just live for ourselves and those closest to us, keep it simple and let the world take care of itself, sometimes that sounds really good. We know we can’t, and in our hearts we don’t want to.

But it sure would feel better if we knew God was pulling some weight here, too, working alongside us, doing wonders.

We know God’s answer to Isaiah is in the child whose birth celebration approaches.

God tears open the heavens and comes down, but not with earthquake and fire. God tears open the heavens, sets aside divine power and glory, and becomes one of us. In Jesus, we see the Triune God’s answer to our plea to come and save us.

But to see how that helps today, remember that the season of Advent prepares for multiple “comings,” “advents”. One is our preparation to celebrate that tearing of the heavens 2,000 years ago at Christmas. On this First Sunday of Advent in particular, we see another is preparing for the coming of God in Christ at the end of time.

But in between, the second advent, the second coming, is what we need to hear most of all this Advent season. The coming of God in Christ to us right now, in our lives, our hearts, this world.

Today Paul says this coming is your promise.

 “God is faithful,” Paul says, “and will strengthen you to the end.” You will not lack any spiritual gift you need to serve your God in Christ.

Far from frightening you with the “threatening dangers of your sins,” Paul proclaims not only the forgiveness of your sins and failings, but the strength you need from God to be blameless before God. The advent of Christ for which you most want to pray in these days, Paul suggests, is God’s coming into your very heart. Giving you the strength, the courage, the hope you need to face today.

You know you’re awake, and trying hard. What you need to remember is that you’re not waiting for the master to return.

Christ has already come again, and lives in you. And in me. And in all God’s children. The mighty acts Isaiah asks for, the tearing open of the heavens to restore this broken earth, will happen. God has promised it. It will happen as Christ’s Spirit fills and strengthens more and more.

God is faithful, and will strengthen you  – and even let you rest at times – so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. And through you, through all, God will restore all things. This is most certainly true.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

In the midst of plague and a broken society and world, we join with others of the same situation and give thanks to God on this day.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Day of Thanksgiving, year A
Texts: Deuteronomy 8:7-18; Luke 17:11-19

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Remember to give thanks to God when you prosper, Moses says.

As the Israelites prepare to enter the land promised to them by God, where they will flourish, they are warned not to exalt themselves when they thrive there. They mustn’t forget that the God of their ancestors took them out of slavery and led them through the “terrible” wilderness to this good place.

When Jesus heals ten people afflicted with leprosy, perhaps they did what Moses warns against. Nine, in their joy, or eagerness to be with family again, or for any reason, forgot to thank the One who just miraculously cured them.

In prosperity and abundance, in relief at healing, in hope for the future, in security and peace, it’s possible to forget to thank God. These readings urge us: don’t forget to be thankful when all is well and good.

They don’t seem to fit this year.

How would today’s Gospel sound if Jesus weren’t there to heal?

If the ten lepers simply had a normal day of sitting by the roadside, shouting “unclean,” hoping someone might toss them a coin, would anyone ask, “Why didn’t all of these give thanks?”

For us, over a quarter of a million people have died to pandemic in this country, a contagion at least as serious as leprosy was. There are many more empty places at thousands of tables this Thanksgiving Day than usual. And additional empty places where loved ones separated from us for safety would usually sit. Some haven’t seen loved ones for eight months. So many, even just in our congregation, are isolated and alone. Shall we be chastised for struggling to be thankful?

How would Deuteronomy sound if the people were told that once more at the gate of the Promised Land they would be punished again with another 40 years in the wilderness? Would they then need warning about getting so fat and comfortable they might forget to thank God?

For us, far from feeling prosperous and secure in our nation, we’re in the midst of a presidential transition the Founders never envisioned. What if the one who loses refuses to step aside? And will the administration do any governing now until Inauguration Day, do anything to stem the tide of COVID? The great social issues that challenge our society boil over every day, different ones at different times, all demanding our attention. Do we need warning of being too self-confident, proud of our secure, safe, nation, as if we made it so?

Demanding thankfulness in the midst of suffering or disease or civil unrest feels abusive, lacking compassion and sensitivity.

And it doesn’t work. No one becomes thankful – to God or to others – because someone chided them, or guilted them. True thankfulness rises up in the heart on its own when someone feels gratitude, becomes aware of blessings, recognizes graces that have been received.

So there are no lectures to you to be thankful this Thanksgiving. Not if you, like so many, are struggling to find a thankful heart, reasons to be grateful.

But today is Thanksgiving Day nonetheless. Perhaps, rather than a lecture, we could witness someone who knew as well as we do that life is not always disease-free and lived in the abundant milk and honey and peace of the Promised Land.

In 1637, Europe was in the middle of a war that raged for 30 years.

Fought between Christian nobility over the issues of the Reformation, the peasants, the ordinary folk, paid dearly for it in blood. Christian war brought massive suffering and death. In the midst of this war, recurrences of the plague spread throughout Europe.

In Eilenburg, Saxony, Pastor Martin Rinkhart had served since the war’s beginning. Many refugees fled to this walled city, bringing with them overcrowding, starvation, and disease. Armies overran the city. The Rinkharts, not wealthy, housed many refugees over the years. And in 1637, the plague came to Eilenburg.

The contagion spread fear and panic, and eight thousand died in the city in two years. In 1637, Rinkhart was the only surviving pastor in the city, and held more than 4,500 funerals that year, including his wife’s.

Pandemic, death, and fear of disease. Civil strife and fighting between Christians. The feared collapse of societal institutions. That sounds familiar.

And in the middle of those times, Martin Rinkhart wrote a hymn.

He doesn’t stand in privilege and unconcern and rebuke us for our struggle to find gratitude in these days. No, he invites us to join him, and the survivors of Eilenburg, to sing in the midst of disease and social strife: “Now thank we all our God with hearts and hands and voices, Who wondrous things has done, in Whom this world rejoices; Who, from our mothers’ arms, has blessed us on our way with countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.”

Might we recognize a kindred spirit here, and join this song? Remaining open-eyed to civil crisis and the uncertainty of our times, to a global pandemic that burns hotly, could we join this brother, and the millions who have sung this with him these past four hundred years?

It’s actually easy to forget to give thanks in both good times and bad.

Perhaps, singing this, we might find gratitude in our times, too. Gratitude for the beautiful creation, and a sunny, frosty November morning. Gratitude for the gift of people who love you – even if you must be at home alone, or  you can’t see them, they still love you and pray for you and hold you in God’s care. Gratitude for the joy in the midst of grief that those who have died are in the arms of God in life that does not end. Gratitude for food and drink abundant enough to share. Gratitude for signs of hope that healing of our society and nation might be coming. Even gratitude for signs that a lessening and finally an ending of this plague might be ahead, even if it’s still months.

You may perhaps, if you sing with Martin, find many more things to give thanks for welling up in your heart and your voice. But most of all, you’ll remember that nothing can separate you from God’s love in Christ Jesus. Not this life, not death. You are beloved and precious. As are all.

“Now thank we all our God with hearts and hands and voices,

Who wondrous things has done, in Whom this world rejoices; Who, from our mothers’ arms, has blessed us on our way with countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.”

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

When we focus our hearts on Christ, we serve each other daily and bring forth the reign of Christ—and we do it together.

Vicar Andrea Bonneville
Reign of Christ, Lectionary 34 A 
Texts: Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24; Matthew 25:31-46; Ephesians 1:15-23

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Have we done enough?

This is the question that many of us might ask after we read this parable from Matthew’s Gospel.

But what if this is the wrong question for us to ask today.

If this parable is meant to warn us of divisive judgment, shame and guilt us for what we did not do, or create an us vs. them mentality about who did enough and who didn’t do enough, I don’t want anything to do with it.

If we turn our focus towards debating what is enough in the eyes of Christ, we begin walking down a very unstable path filled with judgement, fear, and hypocrisy.

Asking the question, “have we done enough?”  is not a question that comes from Christ. It is a question rooted in the oppressive “pull yourself up from your boot straps” language that we know too well.

When Christ gathers the nations together, Christ isn’t asking us to bring our laundry list of good works to prove that we have done enough. Christ is gathering us together to remind us where the Triune God will be found.

This year has been a hard year. There is no way around that. We are tired and weary. We have found ourselves dropping to our knees and asking, “God, are you with us or not?”

This is the question we ask God today and the question we have been asking God for months.

Today and every day, we celebrate the reign of Christ as we proclaim that the Triune God is leading us and working through us. That the reign of Christ is more powerful than any human institution that we have created. That everything that divides us becomes secondary to the fact that we are all God’s beloved children and redeemed by the one who lived and served among us. God, who in the form of Christ died on the cross and was resurrected into eternal life so that we may hope in a future of reconciliation. And hope that the reign of Christ will break into our midst so we can be the community that God calls us to be. 

A community that keeps watch and stays awake for the reign of Christ. A community that uses the gift that we have been given through Christ to serve our neighbor.

There were times in this past year that we saw a deeper need and could only extend our hand so far. Times we wanted to gather as a community, to join our voices in song and protest. Times we questioned if bridging the divide and building a beloved community is even possible. 

Out of our exhaustion, it can feel like we don’t know what our part is or what we should do next. We find ourself wondering with the first followers of Jesus:

Christ, when did we see you hungry? When did we see you thirsty? When did we see you see you as a stranger? Or naked? Or sick? Or in prison? And when did we provide for you?

To our surprise, we hear Christ saying to us, truly I tell you…

…just as you fed people in the parking lot and provided the essentials for a dignified life, you did it to me.

…just as you physically distanced and moved your worship into your homes to protect your neighbors, you did it to me.

…just as you provided financial assistance for rent and utilities and provided one man within one day all that he needed to transition into his home, you did it to me.

…just as you called to check in on a friend, brighten another person’s day with your kindness and compassion, you did it to me.

…just as you began the journey to become anti-racist and acted to learn how to remake a world in which all God’s beloved children can breathe safely and freely, you did it to me.

…just as you lamented and wept because of injustice and illness, oppression and suffering, you did it with me.

…just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.  And you did it with me.

When we remember our Creator has entrusted us to care for the whole creation, everything we do is in service to Christ. When we root our bodies in the love of Jesus, everything we do is in service to Christ. When our hearts are filled with the fire of Spirit, everything we do is in service to Christ. And when we live into the truth that all God’s children are created in the image of the Triune God, everything we do is in service to Christ.

God is telling us that when our hearts break open from seeing the injustice and oppression that surrounds us, that is exactly where God will be. Because God has been with us and guiding us along our entire journey.  

God, through the prophet Ezekiel, tells us that God will take the lead. God says: 

I myself will search for you. I will seek you. I will rescue you, bring you together, feed you, and provide you rest.

I myself will be the shepherd. I will seek the lost, bring back the strayed, heal the injured and strengthen the weak.

I myself will gather you, I will find you again and again, and I will keep you.

The message in today’s parable of Christ showing up at the margins of society is not new for us. We know where to find Christ, we know that Christ is going to show up in unexpected places and at unexpected times.

Today marks the end of the church calendar, a bookmark of our year together while apart. Tomorrow, we enter into this new year, where we open up scriptures again and we hear the story of the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ. We see it with new eyes and hear it with new hears because in the past year we have been transformed.

Transformed to value community in new ways, to live with great resiliency, to confront our world views, and to love without measure.

We have been transformed despite being apart. We are missing each other deeply and we need to encourage each other to keep looking for oil to keep our lamps burning.

We still need to be apart for now, but even in our separation we are together.

Together through our action, our words, and our prayers. Through the way we loved each other, the way we loved God, the way we served.

Together, side by side while still six feet apart, we bring forth Christ’s reign. And we get to do that again tomorrow, and again the next day, and the day after that.

Christ’s reign is happening around us all the time.  It is happening when we vote and advocate, when we collect our resources and see that glimmer of abundance, when we offer our hand to work alongside our neighbor, when we house the unhoused, when our faith is embodied in our lives. We do it together. Again and again.

Before we grow weary again and turn back to the age-old question asking God, “are you with us or not,” we must not forget that our work now becomes to listen. Because in the next few weeks, we are going to hear about how Christ breaks into our world as an infant and promises to turn the world around. 

There is always going to be work to do, but for today I echo Paul’s words to the Ephesians:

I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers.

Amen.

You are given God’s abundant gifts, according to your ability, and invited to use them free of fear, because the Son of God has taken all punishment into the life of the Trinity and changed it to blessing and life.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The Twenty-Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 33 A
Texts: Matthew 25:14-30; 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

The crisis in this parable is fear.

The third servant fears his master’s retribution and buries what was given him to use. He believes his master is harsh, taking what others work for.

But look: the master hands over his own property to three trusted servants – and Jesus uses extravagant, enormous numbers in this story – and then goes away. Nearly 2 million dollars in our money is given to them, divided according to their ability, with no restrictions or stipulations. This master seems generous and trusting.

And yet, when the master returns, he certainly does treat the third servant harshly. His portion is handed to another, and he is thrown “into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

This punishment for just being afraid makes this parable frightening to us, too. But worse, Jesus adds this tag: “For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have in abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.” That sounds horribly wrong to us, on top of our fear.

But you can’t forget this: the death and resurrection of Jesus the Christ is the center of your hope for life now and life to come.

We claim the Scriptures say that God took on our human flesh, lived among us, and allowed us to put God-with-us to death, to love us even in the worst of our evil. As Paul says in Romans, “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” God’s forgiving love is freely poured out for all, for you, at the cross. This is our only hope now and always.

Whatever is happening in this parable, it cannot, cannot override what God does at the cross. God’s deepest revelation of love, the drawing of the creation into the Triune God’s life in the cross and empty tomb, is God’s final word, always. You can’t trust the cross sometimes and abandon it at others.

So, you have to understand how this parable fits underneath and within the truth of God’s love at the cross.

Your path to that understanding opens up in Gethsemane.

It’s possible that Jesus, nearing his death, and in righteous, divine anger, was considering punishing God’s people who rejected God in their midst. All his Holy Week parables reveal that judging intensity. Therefore, Gethsemane was a real struggle, a true crisis for Jesus, not a pre-determined outcome. He really had to make a decision. Would he take God’s path of self-giving, sacrificial love, or bring down God’s wrath, as his late stories suggest?

And Jesus decided not to avenge his rejection by God’s people, not to give the vineyard to worthier tenants, not to slam the door or throw into darkness, but to enter himself into the evil and pain of this world freely. To offer, out of love, God’s life to the creation.

In Gethsemane, Jesus fixes this parable, changes the ending. Instead of the one with abundance getting even more, while those with nothing lose all, Jesus chooses the opposite. The One who has it all – divine power and glory, life within the Trinity – gives it all up, loses everything so that those who were lost, who had nothing, no faith or trust in him, who even rejected him, might receive all.

So what’s left of this parable?

Well, now it makes sense, start to finish. The owner gives the servants all the owner’s property, millions of dollars in the story, just as God gives us, God’s children, the whole creation in extravagant trust.

And you and I are asked to use what we’ve been given, to care for God’s property. Talents, in the parable, are money. So, using our wealth to serve our master is the invitation here. But talents in English are gifts – spiritual, physical, intellectual – so using our God-given talents to serve our master is also the invitation here. Use your gifts, don’t bury them. That’s all that’s asked.

And there’s no need to fear anything. The master entered the outer darkness himself, the Son of God has drawn all punishment and death into God’s life and destroyed their power.

From start to finish, because of the cross and empty tomb, this is a parable of grace and gift and invitation.

“Therefore encourage one another and build up each other, as you indeed are doing,” Paul says today.

For two weeks in a row now Paul has given you a word of encouragement to share with your siblings in Christ, your neighbor, your world.

You belong to a God of abundance who gives to you and to all abundantly, according to ability. To use and care for and make a difference as best you can, knowing you are loved no matter what, so you can confidently serve, without fear, until the master returns for you.

Therefore, encourage one another and build up each other, as you indeed are doing.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen